Part 2 · Chapter 2

And what if they’d already searched? What if I find them in my room?

" But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had snooped in. Even Nastasya hadn’t touched it. But seriously! How could he have left all that stuff in that mess? He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the things out, and stuffed them into his pockets."

There were eight things in all: two little boxes with earrings or something like that, he barely glanced at them; then four small leather cases. There was a chain, too, just wrapped in newspaper, and something else in newspaper that looked like a decoration...

He crammed them all into the different pockets of his overcoat, and the last pocket of his pants, trying to hide them as much as possible. He grabbed the wallet, too. Then he went out of his room, leaving the door open.

He walked fast and determinedly, and even though he felt totally drained, he was still thinking clearly. He was worried about being chased, afraid that in another half-hour, maybe even a quarter of an hour, they’d give the order to find him, and he had to erase all traces before then.

He had to clean everything up while he still had some strength, some ability to think straight... Where was he going to go? That had been decided a long time ago: "Toss them into the canal, and everything would be hidden in the water, the whole thing would be over."

That's what he’d decided during his feverish night, when he’d felt the urge to get up and leave, to hurry up and get rid of it all. But getting rid of it turned out to be a really tough job.

He wandered along the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for a good half-hour or more, glancing several times at the steps leading down to the water, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it; either there were rafts at the edge of the steps, and women were doing laundry on them, or boats were moored there, and people were everywhere.

Plus, he could be seen and noticed from all sides; it would look suspicious for a guy to go down on purpose, stop, and throw something into the water. And what if the boxes floated instead of sinking? And of course they would.

Even as it was, everyone he passed seemed to stare and look around, as if they had nothing better to do than to watch him.

"Is it just my imagination?" he thought.

Finally, he realized it might be better to go to the Neva. There weren’t as many people there, he’d be less noticeable, and it would be more convenient in every way, especially since it was further away.

He couldn’t believe he’d been wandering for a good half-hour, anxious and worried in this dangerous situation without thinking of it before. And that half-hour he’d wasted on a crazy plan, just because he’d thought of it while delirious! He was incredibly absentminded and forgetful, and he knew it.

He definitely had to hurry.

He headed towards the Neva along V - - Prospect, but then another thought hit him.

"Why the Neva? Wouldn’t it be better to go way out, back to the Islands, and hide the stuff somewhere remote, like in the woods or under a bush, and mark the spot, maybe?"

Even though he felt totally off, the idea seemed solid. But he wasn't going anywhere near there. Coming out onto the square, he spotted a passage between two blank walls leading to a courtyard. On his right, a huge, unpainted wall of a four-story building stretched into the court.

On his left, a wooden fence ran parallel for about twenty yards, then turned sharply left. It was a deserted, fenced-off area piled high with junk. At the end of the courtyard, the corner of a low, grimy stone shed - probably part of a workshop - peeked out from behind the fence.

It was likely a carriage builder’s or carpenter’s shed; the whole place was coated in coal dust.

"This would be the perfect spot to ditch it," he thought.

Not seeing anyone around, he slipped in and immediately spotted a sink near the gate, the kind you often find in yards full of workers or cab drivers. Above the fence, someone had scribbled the classic joke in chalk: "Standing here strictly forbidden."

Even better - no one would suspect anything if he went in.

"I could just dump it all in a pile and get out of here!"

Looking around one last time, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticed a huge, rough-hewn stone against the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink. It probably weighed sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a street.

He could hear people passing by - always a ton of them in that area - but he couldn’t be seen from the entrance, unless someone came in from the street, which could easily happen, so he had to hurry.

He bent down, gripped the top of the stone firmly, and using all his strength flipped it over. Underneath was a small hollow in the ground, and he immediately dumped everything from his pocket into it. The purse was on top, and the hollow still wasn’t full.

Then he grabbed the stone again and flipped it back into place, though it stood a little higher now. He smoothed out the dirt around it and pressed it down with his foot. Nothing looked out of place.

He went out and turned into the square. Again, a rush of intense, almost unbearable joy flooded him for a moment, just like it had in the police station.

"I’m off the hook! And who would ever think to look under that stone? It’s probably been there since the house was built, and will stay there for years to come. And if it is found, who would suspect me? It’s all over! No trace!"

And he started laughing. Yeah, he remembered starting with a thin, nervous, quiet laugh, and just kept laughing as he crossed the square. But when he reached the K - - Boulevard, where he’s seen that girl two days before, his laughter suddenly stopped. Other thoughts crept in.

He suddenly felt disgusted at the thought of passing that seat where he’s sat and pondered after the girl left, and he hated the idea of seeing that whiskered cop to whom he gave the twenty copecks: "Ugh, him!"

He walked around angrily and distractedly, looking everywhere. All his thoughts now seemed to be circling around a single point, and he felt that there was such a point, and that now, now, he was facing that point - and for the first time, really, in the last two months.

"Seriously?!" he thought, suddenly exploding with rage.

"It’s started, then. It’s really happening. Forget about a new life! Man, how dumb was I? ...And all the lies I told today! How much I groveled over that awful Ilya Petrovitch! But who cares about any of them, or my sucking up to them! That’s not even the point! It’s not that at all!"

Suddenly, he stopped. A totally unexpected and super simple question messed with his head and frustrated him.

"If I really did this on purpose, and not because I was being an idiot, if I actually had a plan, why didn’t I even glance into the purse and know what was inside? That’s what I’m going through all this pain for, doing this messed up, disgusting, degrading thing?"

"And now I want to just toss the purse into the water with everything I haven’t even seen... how does that even work?"

Yeah, that was true, everything was true. But he’s known it all along, and it wasn't a new question, even though he decided it last night without thinking it through, like it just had to be, like there was no other way...

Yeah, he’s known it all, understood it all; it was definitely settled yesterday when he was leaning over the box and pulling out the jewelry boxes... Yeah, that’s right.

"I must be really sick," he decided grimly.

"I’ve been stressing myself out so much, I don’t even know what I’m doing... Yesterday, the day before, and all this time I’ve been freaking out. I’ll get better and I won’t worry... But what if I don’t get better at all? God, I’m so over it!"

He kept walking without stopping. He desperately needed a distraction, but he didn't know what to do, what to try. A new, overwhelming feeling was taking over every second; it was a huge, almost physical, disgust for everything around him, a stubborn, nasty feeling of hate.

Everyone he saw was repulsive to him - he hated their faces, their movements, their gestures. If someone had talked to him, he felt like he would have spit at them or bit them...

He stopped suddenly, when he got to the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov.

"Wait, he lives here, in that house," he thought.

"Why, I didn’t come to Razumihin on my own! This is the same thing all over again... Interesting to know, though; did I come here on purpose, or did I just happen to walk here? Never mind, I told him the day before yesterday that I’d go see him the day after, so I’m going!"

"Besides, I really can’t go any further now."

He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor.

The latter was at home in his tiny apartment, writing at the moment, and he opened the door himself. It had been four months since they’d seen each other. Razumihin was wearing a ripped bathrobe, with socks on his bare feet, a mess, unshaven, and hadn't showered. His face showed surprise.

"Is that you?" he cried.

He looked his friend up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled.

"You’re broke as hell! Dude, you look rough!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s clothes.

"Come sit down, you’re tired, I’ll bet."

And when he finally sank down onto the worn-out American leather sofa, which was even worse than his own, Razumihin immediately saw that his visitor was sick.

"Seriously, you’re really sick, do you know that?"

He started feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.

"Never mind," he said, "I came here for this: I don’t need lessons... I wanted,... but I don’t really want lessons..."

"But, seriously! You’re delirious, you know!" Razumihin observed, watching him closely.

"No, I’m not."

Raskolnikov got up from the couch. He hadnn't realized he’d be running into his friend when he climbed the stairs to Razumihin’s. Now, it hit him - the last thing he needed was to be face-to-face with anyone right then. A wave of irritation washed over him.

He almost lost it as soon as he walked into Razumihin’s place.

"Later," he said abruptly, heading for the door.

"Hold up, you’re a trip."

"I’m good," the other guy said, pulling his hand away again.

"Then why even come? Are you serious? This is... kind of rude! I’m not letting you just bounce like that."

"Look, I came because I know you’re the only one who could help... to start with, because you’re way kinder than anyone - smarter, I mean, and can judge... and now I see I don’t need anything. Got it? Nothing at all... no one’s help... no one’s sympathy. I’m on my own... solo."

"Come on, that’s enough. Leave me alone."

"Chill for a sec, dude. You’re totally losing it. Whatever. I don’t have classes, do you hear? But there’s this bookseller, Heruvimov - he’s basically a substitute for a lesson. I wouldn’t trade him for five lessons. He’s publishing stuff, like natural science manuals - huge circulation!"

The titles alone are worth the money! You always thought I was a dummy, but seriously, there are bigger fools than me! Now he’s trying to be all progressive, even though he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but of course, I’m encouraging him.

Here are two signatures from the German text - in my opinion, the most ridiculous fake stuff ever; it debates the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, naturally, proves she is.

Heruvimov’s bringing it out as a contribution to the whole woman question; I’m translating it; he’s gonna expand these two and a half signatures into six, we’ll make up a gorgeous title that’s half a page long and release it for half a ruble. It’s gonna be awesome!

He’s paying me six rubles a signature, so it’s about fifteen rubles for the job, and I’m already in for six.

When we’re done with this, we’re starting a translation about whales, and then we’ve got some of the most boring scandals from the second part of Les Confessions lined up for translation; someone told Heruvimov that Rousseau was like Radishchev. You know I’m not gonna argue with him, screw him!

So, you wanna do the second signature of ‘Is woman a human being?’ If you do, grab the German sheets, pens, and paper - it’s all here, and take three rubles; since I’m already in for six on the whole thing, three rubles is your share.

And when you finish the signature, there’s another three rubles for you.

And please don’t think I’m doing you a favor; quite the opposite, as soon as you walked in, I realized you could help me; for one thing, I’m terrible at spelling, and second, I sometimes get totally lost in German, so I just make it up as I go along. The only comfort is, it’s bound to be better.

"Though who knows, maybe it’s sometimes worse. So, you in?"

Raskolnikov silently took the German sheets, took the three rubles, and without a word walked out. Razumihin stared after him, totally confused.

But when Raskolnikov was on the next street, he turned around, climbed the stairs to Razumihin’s again, put the German article and the three rubles on the table, and then left again, still without saying a word.

"Are you kidding me?" Razumihin shouted, finally losing it. "What is this, some kind of joke? You’re gonna drive me nuts too... what did you even come here to see, man?"

"I don’t need... a translation," Raskolnikov muttered from the stairs.

"Then what the heck do you want?" Razumihin shouted from above.

Raskolnikov kept going down the stairs, silent as ever.

"Hey, where are you living?"

He gave no answer and no reaction.

"Seriously, what’s wrong with you?"

But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge, something annoying jolted him back to full awareness. A coachman, after yelling at him a couple of times, lashed him hard on the back with his whip because he’s almost gotten under the horses’ hooves.

The sting really ticked him off, so he stormed over to the railing - for some reason, he’s been walking right in the middle of the bridge, in the path of traffic. He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard people laughing, of course.

"Serves him right!"

"Probably a pickpocket."

"Faking being drunk, trying to get run over; and you have to deal with him."

"It’s a whole profession, seriously."

But while he stood at the railing, still mad and confused after the carriage disappeared, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone shove money into his hand. He looked up.

It was an older woman in a scarf and clunky shoes, with a girl - probably her daughter - wearing a hat and carrying a green parasol.

"Take it, please, in Christ’s name."

He took it, and they walked on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. Judging by his clothes, they probably thought he was a beggar asking for money, and the twenty copecks he got was probably because the lash made them feel bad for him.

He closed his hand around the coin, walked another ten paces, and turned to face the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was clear, and the water was almost bright blue, which is super rare for the Neva.

The cathedral dome, which looks amazing from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, sparkled in the sunlight, and in the clear air, every detail on it was visible. The pain from the whip faded, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy, vague idea completely occupied him now.

He stood still, and stared intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was at university, he’s stood still here hundreds of times - usually on his way home - gazed at this incredible sight, and almost always felt a strange, mysterious emotion.

It left him feeling cold; this gorgeous picture was blank and lifeless to him. He always wondered about his gloomy, weird impression, and, not trusting himself, put off finding an explanation.

He vividly remembered those old doubts and worries, and it felt like no accident he was remembering them now.

It struck him as strange and ridiculous that he should stop at the same spot as before, as if he actually thought he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him... not that long ago. He felt almost amused, and yet it hurt his heart.

Deep down, hidden away from sight, everything seemed distant - all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions, that picture, and himself, and everything... He felt like he was floating upwards, and everything was disappearing from his sight.

Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly realized he was holding the money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a flick of his arm, tossed it into the water; then he turned and headed home.

It seemed to him, he’s cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment. Evening was coming on when he got home, so he must have been walking for about six hours. He didn’t remember how or where he’d gotten back.

Undressing, and trembling like a horse that’s been ridden too hard, he collapsed onto the sofa, pulled his coat over himself, and immediately drifted off...

It was getting dark when he woke up from a seriously scary scream. Whoa, what a scream! He’d never heard sounds like that - like howling, wailing, grinding, and just pure chaos. He couldn’t believe how brutal and crazy it was. Terrified, he sat up in bed, feeling like he was gonna pass out.

But the fighting, wailing, and cursing got louder and louder. Then, he was totally shocked to hear his landlady’s voice. She was screaming, shrieking, and wailing, super fast and all jumbled up, so he couldn’t understand what she was saying.

She was begging, for sure, not to get beat up, because she was being mercilessly pounded on the stairs. Her attacker’s voice was awful, full of spite and rage, almost like a croak. But he was talking too, just as fast and unclear, rushing and sputtering.

Suddenly, Raskolnikov trembled; he recognized the voice - it was Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here, beating the landlady! He’s kicking her, slamming her head against the steps - that’s clear, you can tell from the sounds, the cries, and the thuds. What’s going on, is the world upside down?

He could hear people running from every floor and every staircase; he heard voices, shouts, knocking, doors slamming.

"But why, why, and how could this be?" he repeated, seriously wondering if he’d gone crazy.

But no, he heard it too clearly! And they’d come for him next, "because it’s all about that... about yesterday... Good grief! He would have locked his door, but he couldn’t lift his hand... plus, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, torturing and numbing him...

But finally, after about ten minutes, all the commotion started to die down. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still throwing threats and curses... But finally, he seemed to be quiet too, and you couldn’t hear him anymore.

"Did he leave? Oh my God!"

And now the landlady is going too, still crying and moaning... and then her door slammed. Now the crowd was heading back to their rooms, talking, arguing, calling out to each other, yelling, then whispering. There must have been tons of them - almost all the people living in the building.

"But, seriously, how could this happen! And why, why did he come here!"

Raskolnikov slumped onto the couch, but couldn’t close his eyes. He lay there for half an hour, feeling completely wiped out and experiencing a level of terror he’s never felt before. Suddenly, a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup.

Looking at him carefully to see if he was asleep, she set the candle on the table and started setting out what she’s brought - bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.

"You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, I bet. You’ve been wandering around all day, and you’re shaking with fever."

"Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?"

She stared at him intently.

"Who beat the landlady?"

"Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant manager, on the stairs... Why was he treating her like that, and... why was he here?"

Nastasya scrutinized him, silent and frowning, and it lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even a little scared by her searching eyes.

"Nastasya, why aren’t you saying anything?" he said timidly at last, in a weak voice.

"It’s the blood," she answered softly, as though talking to herself.

"Blood? What blood?" he muttered, going pale and turning towards the wall.

Nastasya kept looking at him without speaking.

"Nobody has been beating the landlady," she declared at last, in a firm, resolute voice.

He stared at her, hardly able to breathe.

"I totally heard it... I wasn't even sleeping. I was sitting up," he said, even quieter. "I listened for a long time. The assistant superintendent showed up... Everyone rushed out onto the stairs from all the apartments."

"Nobody’s been here. That’s just your imagination running wild. When you bottle up your feelings, you start seeing things... Wanna grab something to eat?"

He didn’t say anything. Nastasya just stood there, watching him.

"Can I have something to drink... Nastasya?"

She headed downstairs and came back with a white ceramic jug of water. He only remembered taking one sip of the cold water and getting some on his neck. Then, everything went blank.